Pest Control
by akg.writes
Summary: Skinner proves his allegiance to Scully in a rather unorthodox way. No, it's not SSk. Get your mind out of the gutter.
1. Chapter 1

When Skinner called the office and asked to see just me, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. He very rarely meets with only fifty-percent of the X-Files team and when he does, it's usually Mulder because, well, frankly it's usually Mulder who needs a good ass-kicking from the boss. Not that discipline in any form really extorts good behavior from my less than mainstream partner, but I do admire Skinner's perseverance in trying. Anyway, this time... he just requested me.

If the wary expression on Mulder's face is any indication, he isn't particularly pleased to hear that he wasn't included in the summons. I would have attributed it to the fact that nothing good ever happens when we are separated, but given Mulder's propensity for ditching me on a moment's notice to follow up on a tenuous-at-best and perilous-at-worst lead, well... I doubt the man has even noticed the pattern. No doubt he is thinking of the abdominal bullet scar I sport as a memento of the last time I assigned to someone else.

"Want me to pick something up for you from the cafeteria on the way back?" I ask him, shrugging into my suit jacket which had been discarded earlier as I foraged through old, musty files. Mulder had asked me to find a file about leprechaun activity on the UC Berkeley campus while he typed up a report. Why he with the photographic memory didn't go searching for the file and why I with the hundred-plus words a minute typing speed didn't do the report, I don't know. What can I say? I work with a man who thinks the National Enquirer is not only a viable but a valuable source of information.

Suffice it to say that though a meeting with the AD wasn't exactly what I had in mind in terms of a diversion, it was a welcome departure. Unless of course I had missed one of Mulder's gratuitous cereal references in his last report (just remembering that 'ticks are for kids!' line in the Lyme Disease case is enough to make me shudder... and God only knows I almost missed the 'magically delicious' one in that hallucinogenic shamrock fiasco) and Skinner is going to chew me a new, ahem, nostril for it. It does upset me that Skinner chooses to go after me for Mulder's aberrant sense of humor, but then again, reprimanding Mulder never seems to have the desired effect. And Skinner and I both know my tempering effects on the eccentricities that Mulder seems to thrive on highlighting are the only things that maintain federal funding for the X-Files division.

"Not unless the cafeteria has taken to serving something more appetizing that week-old bologna," Mulder answers. He shrugs. "Though I hear Alf enjoyed a good cat every once in a while."

I heave a sigh for his benefit. It is long past the time when Mulder's day-to-day quirks have truly annoyed me, but I try to keep appearances up, lest he start to think he can get away with anything. I mean, this is how the man acts when he thinks he aggravates me... I shudder to think what might change if he knew how well I have acclimated to him. Instead of cereal references... my God, we could be looking at 'Mistress Cockburn' and 'X. Stacy' listed as legitimate sources!

The very possibility makes me wince.

"I'll be back soon," I tell him, turning to take my leave.

"Scully!"

I freeze at his tone, my hand hovering above the doorknob.

When I turn back, I can't tell if he's leering or genuinely amused. His fingers are steepled in front of his lips, so I have no idea if it's a smile or a smirk that is tugging at his lips, but he slowly trails his gaze from my eyes to my hemline.

Since Mulder is not one to openly gawk at me - probably out of the sliver of self- preservation that he regularly suspends during his escapades - I realize there's probably something more significant about the gaze than mere hormonal interest. Not that there's anything wrong with hormonal interest, mind you, but...

I glance down and see the source of his entertainment: my black skirt, apparently victimized by the static cling I had tried to eliminate this morning before leaving for work, is frozen unnaturally over my rear, exposing the rather impractical black lace slip I chose this morning simply because it's the only clean one I have. I sigh. Leave it to me to choose the most impractically feminine slip I own on the one day when static cling is determined to expose it.

"Nice slip, Scully," Mulder tells me. "Is it an expression of your sublimated femininity?"

It takes me a minute to realize that he is not actually insulting my femininity but is instead making a pun. No doubt he expects me to be insulted, at which point he would gleefully turn the tables on me and inform me that he was just talking about a Freudian slip. He can be so transparent it's almost embarrassing.

Then again, I am supposed to be letting him think that I am not wise to his ways.

"The way you were eyeing my, ahem, slip, would indicate that I'm not doing so well at sublimating it," I toss out at him, rummaging through a cabinet drawer to find the Bounce sheets I keep there for just such emergencies.

"Would that make it a Freudian slip, Scully?" he comments.

Har har har. I don't bother even giving him a look because I'm too busy rubbing the Bounce sheet on the inside of my skirt.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I sigh. "You used the last of my static guard spray as insecticide the last time the ants got in here," I remind him. "Dryer sheets work just as well... you just have to be careful not to do it on the outside of the fabric because they tend to leave a white residue."

He smiles at me, this time openly. "Dana Scully, reduced to bachelor-tactics."

I snort, tossing the Bounce sheet away and smoothing my now static-less skirt down over my slip. Bachelor tactics indeed. No heterosexual bachelor I know even bothers with dryer sheets and Mulder, well, he gets all his stuff dry-cleaned. All his stuff. He tries to play it off, but I've picked up his dry-cleaning often enough to know that he sends all his laundry there, machine-washable or no. I wonder if he knows that whenever I have his dry-cleaning duty I wash his machine-washables myself? I doubt he would notice... besides, I'm going to bring up those 'Fully Functional' Star Trek boxers when he least expects it.

"See you in a few, Mulder," I tell him as I leave... and then, thinking about how embarrassed I would be if Skinner had to point out my exposed slip, I stick my head back into the office and say, "Thanks!" before disappearing from his view again. 


	2. Chapter 2

I rush to Skinner's office, trying not to appear as if I'm rushing of course, but Kimberly doesn't even look up from her computer screen as she says, "Go right in, Agent Scully"  
I take a moment to brush imaginary lint off of my lapel, not even bothering to ask Kimberly how she knew it was me because honestly, that woman knows a whole hell of a lot more than she lets on, and then stride into Skinner's office.

I expect his customary "Have a seat, Agent" or something similar. Maybe even a "This won't take long" or an "I'm concerned about-". But I get none of those. Instead, to my shock, Skinner seems ill at ease. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk and I sit down wordlessly, too surprised by his uncharacteristic discomfort to do much else.

It's quiet. Too quiet. Aside from the gentle whoosh of air from the cushion as it accepts my weight, the spacious office is silent. I begin to feel as uncomfortable as Skinner looks.

"Sir?" I venture cautiously. "Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No," he says abruptly.

No?

My confusion must be evident because Skinner heaves a sigh so sharp that it very nearly parts my hair... and then he ducks under his desk.

He... ducked... under his desk? I can't decide if I want to take his temperature or call an ambulance. The ambulance option would appear to be the better of the two because I have no desire to get within arms reach of Skinner when he is acting this unpredictable.

And when he emerges from beneath his desk with a wicker basket adorned with a ludicrously huge red bow, I actually have my cell phone in my hand, ready to dial for help. But God help me, I can't remember the number.

I watch as he hastily rips off the bow, throwing its remnants somewhere on his floor perhaps in the hopes that I hadn't noticed it, and then dumps the basket unceremoniously on my lap. I am so occupied staring at Skinner open-mouthed that it doesn't even occur to me to open the stupid basket.

And then... it moves.

I swear to God I jump a foot in the air and Skinner launches himself over his desk to catch the basket before it tumbles to the ground. "For godsakes, Scully, be careful," he mutters as I rearrange myself in the chair and gingerly accept the basket back.

I hold the basket by the top of its arched handle and note that it's weight distribution is all wrong. There is one cluster of mass in the basket and its centered on the right hand side. And then... oh Lord, the mass moves to the left-hand side of the basket. I glance up at Skinner, but he is studiously avoiding my eyes, shuffling papers aimlessly around his desk.

I consider just thrusting the basket back at him, but curiosity gets the better of me. I peek inside.

Oh. My. God.

Assistant Director of the FBI Walter Sergei Skinner, infamous throughout the Bureau for his hard-assed approach to order and even harder pecs - I mean, policies... he...

Lord, he gave me a kitten.

There are some things that can render even me speechless. That flukeman business... that did a pretty good number on my vocal capabilities. Most of Mulder's theories take me a moment to digest for the sheer fact that they operate on principles and ideas that simply don't exist in my reality. It just takes me a few seconds to shift between realities.

But Skinner presenting me with a kitten in a wicker basket... That has got to take the cake. And I'd laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all if I could only remember how to laugh.

"Purebred ragdoll, fully vaccinated, breed authentication papers in the basket," Skinner says, still shuffling papers around.

I'm still staring dumfounded at the clumsy ball of fur as it wanders around the basket, tripping over its own feet and snagging a tuft of its long fur between the woven fibers of the basket.

Little pointy ears... check.

Soft, padded little paws... check.

Fluffy little tail... check.

Cute little whiskers... check.

Adorable blue eyes... check.

I think I can say with one-hundred percent accuracy that I am definitely looking at a kitten here.

"That will be all, Agent Scully," Skinner says.

Wha-? Oh, no no no.

"Sir, I, umm," I start to say, still staring at the fluffy ball. I try again. "Sir, this is... this is a kitten."

"Excellent observational skills, Agent," is all Skinner says.

I finally tear my eyes away from the kitten to stare at my boss. "Sir, you gave me a kitten," I say. It's a good thing I have tenure because a junior field agent engaging in this kind of inane conversation with an AD would be on the first plane to Alaska. Skinner takes off his glasses and looks at me. "Yes, Agent Scully, I gave you a kitten. I expect you'll give her a good home. That will be all."

He's going to dismiss me without telling me why the hell he gave me a kitten? He wouldn't do that, would he?

Apparently he would, could, and has because he has gone back to flipping through papers, summarily dismissing me from his thoughts.

I start to ask what possessed him to give me a kitten, but said kitten has somehow managed to crawl out of the basket and is now snagging my expensive black skirt in its attempt to knead my lap into a proper bed. I watch it for a moment, alternately mourning the skirt and inwardly cooing over the kitten's antics. But then I realize what the hell has just happened and I ask, "Why sir?"

"Pest control, Agent Scully," Skinner replies succinctly. "Cats are excellent for pest control. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do."

Pest control? I wonder silently, but obediently start to take my leave. The kitten immediately tumbles off the side of my lap as I move and mews indignantly. Skinner once again launches himself over his desk, stopping only when he realizes that I caught the wayward animal and that it seems perfectly content to purr happily in my grasp.

He clears his throat and settles back down into his chair, looking back at his papers.

Who knew he was such a sucker for kittens?

The kitten tries valiantly to avoid being forced back into the basket, but I am smarter and more stubborn than it is, and there is no way in hell I'm going to walk all the way back to the basement with a kitten in hand.

"Uh. Thank you, sir," I say awkwardly, as I stand and take care not to jostle the basket much.

I'm almost out of the door when Skinner calls out, "Take her straight home and allow her free reign of your apartment."

What?

I start to turn around, but Skinner waylays me. "Just do it, Agent Scully."

Yes sir, Assistant Director, sir.

It takes a lot to surprise Kimberly; working with Skinner every day, I can only imagine. But I can feel the secretary's open-mouthed stare on my back as I carry a meowing basket out of the office foyer.

In fact, her stare felt a lot like all the ones I'm now getting from the bullpen.

I finally make it to the elevator, but, as luck should have it, there are two office couriers already in the compartment. I press the "B" and stand there, staring straight ahead as if I can't hear the forlorn mewling coming from my basket or see the worried looks that pass between the couriers.

They both get off the elevator at the second floor, one of them glancing askance over her shoulder, and as soon as the doors glide shut behind them, I peek inside the basket. Yup, still a kitten. 


	3. Chapter 3

When I walk into the basement office, Mulder pretends not to see me at first. It's a ritual of his, particularly when I've been called away without him. Something about not noticing that I'm back means that he didn't notice I was gone which means that he didn't care that he wasn't part of the summons. But a tiny, woebegone meow from the basket is all it takes for his head to shoot up, an expression of astonishment on his face.

"I wasn't really serious about the cat, Scully, but the least you could have done was bring some mayonnaise."

I ignore his comment, though I do note that he seemed to take it in better stride than I did, and carefully place the basket on Mulder's desk. Mulder peeks inside the basket and asks, "Did the stork leave this on my doorstep?"

"No, Skinner left it on mine," I say.

Mulder looks up and I note smugly that his calm acceptance of the situation is nowhere to be seen now that he knows Skinner is behind it. "I, uhhhh..." he begins, then pauses, perusing the kitten with more interest now. "She has your eyes," he says finally.

I sigh theatrically and pull the squirming kitten out of the basket and plop it down in Mulder's lap. Mulder stares at it as if it were a shapeshifter and tries to get his tie out of harm's way, but the kitten gets to the silk first. He watches as it bats the cloth around.

"Why the hell did Skinner give you a kitten, Scully?" he asks, staring comically down at his lap. If I didn't know there was a kitten down there, the look on his face as well as the flopping tie would make for a great misunderstanding.

"Damned if I know," I answer honestly. "He said something about pest control and then gave me strict instructions to take it home straight away and let it roam free around my apartment."

"Argh!" is all Mulder says. The kitten has apparently switched tactics from Play with the tie to Kill the tie. "Dammit," he mutters, carefully extricating the animal from his clothing and firmly depositing it in my hands. He then brushes his slacks off and regains his seat. "What are you going to name her?" he inquires, watching me as I struggle to put the kitten back in the basket. "Skinner?"

I shoot him a glare. "Mulder, you know fully well that I cannot maintain a pet," I say. "With all the time that I'm out of town, with the hours that I keep... I certainly cannot give this creature a good home." I finally get the kitten situated inside the basket and I grab my purse. "As soon as I can find a good home for it, it's outta here."

"You might want to reconsider, Scully," Mulder says thoughtfully. "I don't think Skinner is your normal kitten-giving kind of guy. He must have had a reason."

I sigh again. "I'll be back after I take this home," I tell him and shut the door behind me.

"She's awfully cute, Scully!" Mulder calls after me.

Pest control indeed. 


	4. Chapter 4

At around nine that night, when I actually make it back home, my apartment is in shambles. That wretched beast has ransacked the place. How such a small animal could possibly do this amount of damage, I have no idea. I pick up a couch cushion - a very expensive couch cushion, I might add - that has apparently been hunted down, killed, and disemboweled by a small, very determined little predator.

Grumbling about the long-haired little menace and the impracticality of someone like me having such a high-maintenance pet, I stalk around my living room, noting the evidence of the tiny fiend's crusade: the eviscerated carcass of another couch cushion; the tattered hem of my curtains; the crocheted afghan covered in an incriminating mat of long cream-colored hairs; and a series of ornate etchings in the legs of my coffee table that would make a caveman proud.

"Here kitty kitty kitty," I say darkly.

The silly creature actually comes, trotting proudly out of my bedroom with something white stuck to its whiskers. I scoop the kitten up and realize that the 'something white' is actually down. Down?! "You ate one of my pillows!"

The beast doesn't seem the least bit remorseful and actually has the gall to settle down in the crook of my arm and start to purr. "Pest control indeed," I mutter. I carry the small parcel into my bedroom and am not surprised to see my favorite down pillow gutted and strewn across the bed. What does surprise me is how the little monster managed to actually get on top of my bed. With a sigh, I deposit the animal on the biggest clump of down in the hopes that it will tear up the last remaining chunk of that pillow rather than go into the closet and ransack my tailored suits.

"You'd better not rip anything else up while I'm taking my bath or I'll slather you with mayonnaise and give you to Mulder," I grumble at the now occupied kitten. It doesn't seem particularly offended by my threat and when I realize that I am threatening an animal, I go into the bathroom and start a bath.

I add a few bath beads to the water, a few crystals, and a generous helping of bubbles and just as the scent of lavender starts to fill the room, I sneak back to the door of my bedroom and glance in. The kitten is on its back, wrestling with a scrap of a pillowcase. It would appear that the pillowcase is winning. Satisfied that the kitten is pleasantly occupied, I return to the bathroom, depositing my gun and holster on the dresser as I go.

As I sink into the deliciously sinful hot water, I can almost forget that I'm going to have to entirely refurnish my living room... Thoughts of kitty litter, hairballs, and my landlord's heart palpitations slowly ebb from my mind as the luxurious water laps at my skin and the lavender- scented steam soothes away my burgeoning headache.

That is, of course, until I hear a muffled thump. It could be the neighbors... or a car door down the street. But somehow, I have a sneaking suspicion that the infuriating little feline is behind it and there is no way in hell that beast is going to get to my suits. I can live with disemboweled cushions and tattered curtains, but not without my suits.

And so I lift myself out of the tub, mourning the loss of the water's hypnotic warmth, and wrap myself in a huge fluffy white towel. Dealing with a long-haired kitten in a white, damp towel is probably not the brightest idea in terms of hair control, but I don't bother finding something else. God only knows that I'll have to go to work in this towel if that kitten manages to get into my closet.

And wouldn't that just be swell? I step out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. If Skinner wants to see me in just a towel, the man could just ask. No sense in giving me a clothing-eating -

And then I hear it.

A sneeze.

Not a tiny kitten one. This was a real sneeze. From someone far bigger than that cat, someone probably bigger than me, someone who had tried to stifle the exclamation but had not entirely succeeded.

I slowly extend my hand to the dresser where I left my gun, straining to hear another telltale sound with which I can gauge the intruder's position. I now have my gun securely in my hands, but still have no idea where the sneeze came from.

I cautiously look over my shoulder, back towards the living room... and apparently the intruder was waiting for this because I feel an explosive impact knocking the gun from my hands and an arm starting to snake around my neck.

And then he sneezes again.

To be honest, I've never considered an enemy's sneeze a tactical disadvantage and I don't ponder it now. I jab my elbow into his stomach and as he doubles over I lunge for my gun. I whirl around, gun in my hand, and shout, "Freeze!"

He doesn't. Do they ever?

And so I shoot him. And as his arm goes sailing off with nary a splatter of blood, I finally realize that this is Krycek and I'm tempted to shoot him just for the sport of it. "What the hell do you want, Krycek?" I demand coldly.

He sneezes again unceremoniously. "When did you get the cat, Scully?" he just asks conversationally.

And this is the point, of course, where Mulder knocks loudly on the door, shatters my concentration, Krycek kicks the gun out of my hands again and then dives through my window... and then Mulder shouts my name, kicks my front door in, and runs into my bedroom with his gun drawn.

I glance halfheartedly down at the street. I know that not only did Krycek somehow manage to survive the fall, but he's already long gone. I sigh, glancing despondently at the shattered window and knowing that my front door probably doesn't look much better.

"What the hell happened, Scully?" Mulder demands, looking wildly around my room as if he expects someone to jump out at him.

I clutch the edges of my towel around me and then lean down, pick up the prosthetic arm my visitor misplaced, and dust it off. "Did you know that Krycek is allergic to cats, Mulder?" is all I say. 


	5. Chapter 5

"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?"

Skinner still hasn't looked up at me. I dump the prosthetic arm on his desk casually and at this his head jerks up, a question in his eyes.

"You could have just told me They were going to assassinate me," I say, my arms folded over my chest.

Skinner turns his attention back to the file spread out over his desk. "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent."

I nod. Had I really expected anything else? "Thank you for the kitten, sir," I say instead. "She has already demonstrated her worth in controlling... pests."

He acknowledges me with a slight nod of his head.

Just as I turn to leave, he says, "I hear Agent Fowley is allergic to cats too."

Was that a hint of a smile in his voice?

I can't be sure because a wicked, wicked thought has entered my mind.

Pest control... indeed. 


End file.
